


It Will Set You Free

by cinnamoniic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Selkies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Asexual Character, Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, Miscommunication, Panic Attacks, Sharing a Bed, They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-20 14:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30006237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamoniic/pseuds/cinnamoniic
Summary: He’s heard the stories. He knows his mother wouldn’t take another step on land if she could help it, not anymore. It took a long time for him to feel comfortable walking alone on the beach without anticipating torches and pitchforks at his first footfall, skin-thieves and scoundrels looking to steal him away.Martin’s supposed to avoid humans, but he’s never been great at resisting temptation. In the aftermath of a dreadful storm, he finds himself and his sealskin coat trapped in the home of his mysterious human crush, Jon.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 37
Kudos: 140





	1. Let Me Float Your Way

Martin isn’t supposed to get close to humans. 

It’s a fact he tries stubbornly to push to the back of his brain as he sits on the sand inside a little cliff-hidden cove, thinking about the handsome (painfully human) stranger he’s seen about the area lately. The black-covered notebook in his lap curves and waves from water damage, like the ebbing tide lapping at his feet. He taps pensively at the page with his pen and tries to find the right words to describe how he feels.

Conflicted. Slightly guilty. More than a little bit infatuated.

With a groan, Martin drags a hand through his hair, as if to yank the adjectives from thin air to describe the object of his distant affections. Black- no, raven-dark hair, smooth and shiny like the worn beach stones Martin collected as a child. Dark complexion, a rich tourmaline to Martin’s paler pearl. The stranger has perched on a nearby grassy hill for the past few weeks writing in their own black notebook - a connection Martin can’t help but fixate on - always focused and almost entirely still, like some godlike statue of antiquity, a stone-hewn beauty no mortal can match.  _God, he needs some better metaphors._

Cut to the basics - they’re very pretty, they write things in a notebook too... and he’s never actually interacted with them, face to face. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. He’s sure the stranger’s seen him among the waves at least once, quietly admiring. It’s just that the average  _seal_ doesn’t exactly strike one as a potential conversation partner or romantic interest, especially since Martin’s too shy to ever get very close. And talking to them in human form? Forget it.

Martin knows the dangers of humans, really. Not just talking to normal humans, but even taking their shape. Their bodies are so much more inclined to drowning than swimming, and can’t even handle a bit of cold - and that’s not even accounting for other human beings and what they might do to someone like him. He’s heard the stories. He knows his mother wouldn’t take another step on land if she could help it, not anymore. It took a long time for him to feel comfortable walking alone on the beach without anticipating torches and pitchforks at his first footfall, skin-thieves and scoundrels looking to steal him away. Was it ever a logical fear? Maybe, maybe not. But you can never be too careful. He knows that well.

Martin barely gets the chance to realize that he hasn’t written anything yet when his thoughts are interrupted by the clattering of beach rocks. Something’s coming, and quick.

No - the sounds are paced, in intervals - one, two, one, two. Footsteps.  _Human_ footsteps.

_Oh, God, get your coat on, get out of here they’re getting closer what if they hear you or see you or-_

Martin’s never been more glad to be sitting near the water, as, with a quick splash, he dips just out of sight before the approaching human rounds the corner of the cliff face. The shock of frigid water on his face is nothing compared to the shock of recognizing who it is. 

That very same stranger huffs and puffs, out of breath - Martin guesses they don’t run much, by how winded they are - and leans against the side of the rocky cliff trying to recover. Their windswept hair falls down over their face, and Martin has to stifle his fondness as they try and fail to blow it out of their eyes.

No, no, enough with  _fondness_ . Why are they here? They never ever come down this far, and Martin’s sure he’s never seen them move faster than a brisk walk, let alone a heaving sprint. So what-

His yet-unasked question is answered when he spies a black notebook ( _the_ notebook,  _their_ notebook ) snagged by its spine against a large slippery rock, its pages’ frantic fluttering in the wind reminding him of a fish twitching as it suffocates in open air. How far did it get dragged by the breeze to end up all the way over here? How long has the stranger chased it?

Said stranger is still wheezing hard, looking almost dizzy and staggering desperately towards the book before the wind steals it away again, this time into the sea. Small colourful flags and notes are already tearing away from their places among the pages like confetti. The way the wind’s suddenly picked up, it won’t be long before the book is gone for good.

Shyness be damned. 

Martin ducks back below the surface, darting past underwater debris around to the other side of the rock. The book swiftly tumbles towards the surf just as Martin darts up in a burst of seafoam, grabbing it in his teeth. 

Or, at least, he tries to - he’s a bit clumsy, but at the very least the book’s movement is halted by his bulk while he tries to wrap his teeth around it and close it. This is about when he remembers  _who_ the book belongs to, and he looks up again at the stranger, leading to what may be the most awkward impromptu staring contest of Martin’s life. 

The stranger gapes at them, brown eyes wide in surprise. Martin’s feeling his sudden moment of courage draining from him, and he’s trying not to worry about displaying some nervous tic in front of the stranger. Odds are they don’t know seal body language, but still, it’d be just his luck if they did. Trying to project a confidence he now lacks, Martin wobbles closer, holding the book up to them. 

Blinking at him, the stranger reaches out and gently takes the notebook,holding it close to their chest as they catch their breath. And, to Martin’s surprise, they talk.  _To him_ _._ He has to look down slightly to check that yep, he’s still a seal, this isn’t some strange misunderstanding. 

“Well, t-thank you, good sir, for your help. That was very kind of you,” they enunciate in a rich, over-accented voice, like they’re talking to an esteemed academic peer, and not a random pinniped with anxiety. Oh, but they have  _such_ a nice voice, all deep timbre and smokiness. Martin’s sure it’s the sort of voice sailors’ stories might ascribe to a luring siren. 

Martin is distracted by thoughts concerning voices before he realizes the stranger has walked a short distance back the way they came, battling against the biting breeze and slight rain as they go. Their end of their scarf flicks and snaps whip-like in the wind, and Martin can’t help but feel enthralled as he watches. He just interacted with the stranger _face to face_ , and he didn’t even get that scared! They had a whole one-sided conversation he’ll be thinking about for weeks now. As if he didn’t have enough pining material already...

Making sure the stranger’s turned the corner and trekked far enough away, Martin removes his skin once again and almost bounces back up towhere he first sat. He’s never felt such giddy excitement, like his smile could split his face and he wouldn’t even care. Neither his hair tugging in the wind nor the incoming downpour above could ruin his mood. And there’s nobody around to see his unbridled joy - he can just  _be_ , with no judgment, and it’s  _amazing._

The sun dips down into the clouds and embraces the sea, and as Martin watches and sits down to retrieve his abandoned notebook he notes the other perk of humans’ shape: something he’s learned is known as prescription eyewear. Some land glass set in metal frames lets him see with a strange clarity he can only call a miracle. It’s not perfect, he thinks - they’re only his because some unlucky soul left their pair on the beach one day - but it’s certainly an improvement. Martin gazes at the sinking sun among darkening clouds, droplets of mist and rain ghosting over the glass lenses, and he feels something light and airy in his chest, a joy he can’t name. 

And then his hand grasps the notebook, and finds it far less water-damaged and wavy than it’s supposed to be. 

_Oh, no._

With a start, Martin leaps to his feet and drops the book in his panic, and the way the note-laden pages flutter open where it lies confirms his worst fears. Far from his calm demeanour just moments ago, he feels like he can’t keep his breath in his lungs - yet another flaw of human anatomy.  _Stupid!_ How could he let a mixup like this happen? Now the poor stranger’s still missing their book after all that, and-

But the stranger still left with a notebook.  _His_ notebook. 

Martin’s stomach lurches with dread. The self-indulgent thought of seeing what the stranger likes to write about has long since dissolved into panic. His notebook is in the stranger’s possession and - and they’re going to see his poetry,  _his innermost feelings-_

Clattering beach stones and the crackling of thunder ring out around him and herald his desperate chase. Murky seafoam pulls at the sand beneath his feet, the incoming tide trying to drag it all into the drowning deep. The rain, once a gentle sprinkle, an  _indulgence_ , almost deafens him with its deluge. It’s painful and prickly in a way he doesn’t normally feel when submerged underwater, but it doesn’t slow him down. It can’t slow him down. Martin doesn’t even stop to hide his skin properly. His only focus is on returning the stranger’s book and retrieving his own. 

He should be hiding safe underwater, or in a cave somewhere, not taking off on unfamiliar limbs after someone he barely knows and has no idea which direction they went in!

When did the weather even get this awful? The morning’s carmine sky was a beautiful warning, sure, but it had been dull and dry not that long ago, right? How could he not notice? Did the wind and waves come on that quickly? He’s never felt more out of his depth, only desperate adrenaline and heaving breaths keeping him upright anymore. One foot forward, then the other, one, two, one, two-

Why does he even care so much? He should just quit and go home before things get any worse, before nature revolts against him once again, another ship-battering gale knocking him back or spray of salt and mud in his mouth-

_Oh, you_ really _want to talk about revolting against nature?_ You?

_No! Just shut up already-_

The cacophony of crashing waves and screaming wind around him comes to a terrible crescendo as the ground before him grows dark as night, and he looks to the sea to find he stands in the shadow of the most monstrous wave he’s ever seen.

Martin is aware of only three things in this moment - the fear chilling him to his very bones as the wave hits, the all-encompassing ache of overexertion sharpening to a sudden acute agony, and a single pinprick of light in a distant window like a star before his world fades to darkness and murk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big thanks to Evie, Cam, and the rest of the gang for their help in bringing this story to life <3 hope you enjoy!


	2. Run Aground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter include Martin having a panic attack and implications/assumptions of kidnapping/being held hostage.
> 
> I have no self control, so uh, here’s chapter two, in which the plot does thicken

Awareness reluctantly returns to Martin, like driftwood pulled back out to sea by the receding tide. He can hardly manage enough energy to open his eyes. And why would he want to? He’s pretty certain he’s just lazing on a sunny rock somewhere - that would explain it, yeah. Comfortable, warm, dry...

Wait. No, why is it  _dry_ _?_ It’s never dry like  _this_ on any rock by the sea. It’s supposed to at least be wet. And, for that matter, definitely not this comfortable.

That odd discrepancy gets him to blearily blink his eyes open. His vision may still be soft at the edges without his glasses, but Martin can still tell he’s on no rock. That, or it’s an awfully soft rock. He finds himself in a sea of quilts and blankets with a myriad of patterns he can see if he squints, in a room the colour of warm milk. Though the bright sunlight cascading through the window is attacking his eyes with great ferocity, it’s still nice to see sunshine again after yesterday’s dreariness.

Oh god, what  _happened_ to him yesterday? Where is he?  _How did he even get here?_

Martin has only vague memories of the previous day... or night... truth be told, he isn’t sure how long he’s been out. He  _is_ sure that he aches all over, and the pain is steadily growing worse, like it’s waiting for him to be awake and conscious before making him suffer its full effects. Martin breathes out a sigh that sharpens halfway through into a wince, and tries to remember. He can recall writing on the beach, and meeting the handsome stranger-

The stranger! The stranger is human, right? So odds are this is their house, even if from what little he can see it doesn’t quite match the aesthetic he’d always envisioned their home would have. Yep.  _Perfect logic there, Blackwood._

Martin’s also in a bed - a  _human_ bed, _in human form_ \- with no sign of his skin, or recollection of exactly how he got there. It’s like there’s a gap in his memory between then and now that he doesn’t know how to fill; a poem with a start and finish, but just empty lines and blanks in between. Normally that would worry him, but he’s trying  _very, very hard_ to stay positive - if there’s one thing Martin’s good at, it’s pushing down his worries to focus on the big picture, and there’s a hysterical panic starting to well up from somewhere inside him that he needs to keep under wraps ,  because he’s sure there’s a perfectly good explanation for how he’s in this situation and he really shouldn’t jump to conclusions all the time and _oh god what was that-_

Footsteps, and a muted tapping sound he can’t identify. Quiet but still audible humming. A brief screaming, whistling noise that makes him shudder for reasons he can’t recall. _There’s something else here._

Only just avoiding self-inflicted whiplash from how fast he turns to look to the source, Martin attempts to stifle his quickening breaths. He still turns a bit too quick, though, and something between his neck and shoulder  _burns_ _._ From where he lies he can sort of see through the door to what he thinks is a kitchen beyond - if he cranes his neck and leans half off the side of the bed. He’s not sure he manages to quite muffle his whimper of pain, and hopes whatever (or whoever) is just beyond this room making noise isn’t dangerous. 

Visually impaired as he is, Martin could still identify his favourite stranger by blurry silhouette alone. In the kitchen stands a familiar figure with raven-dark hair by the counter, humming a tune Martin thinks he’s heard before. Something pale rises in plumes around them - steam, maybe? Likewise, something soft and uncertain rises and blooms in Martin’s chest, and he sighs in relief. Probably not in danger, then. Butterflies manifest in his stomach, and he hasn’t even the heart to shoo them away yet. Maybe they can answer his questions - he has more than a few. Like where his coat might be. Perhaps it’s still on the beach somewhere. He’ll go look soon, really - right now, he’s looking fondly at the stranger’s one-person waltz round the kitchen, a domestic daydream...

Martin must have stared for longer than he thought, because it’s only when his vision wobbles that he realizes the strain of holding this position is making him shake all over, and the only thing worse than maintaining it is the full-body agony of letting go. His muscles all shout in protest at once, and this time he can’t silence the pained gasp that escapes him, seeming louder than it has any right to be.

Trying to hold back tears, for a while all he can hear is his own panting breath. The footsteps and clacking are suddenly  _way_ closer - must have happened while he was distracted - and he looks up to see the stranger entering the room, now supported by a cane Martin’s never seen them use before. Up close, they’re even smaller than he first thought when he met them on the beach - Martin’s small by selkie standards, sure, but as far as humans go the stranger bests him with ease. He thinks they’re looking at him with concern, but without his glasses he can’t confirm it until they begin to speak.

“M-morning,” they say in that deep voice Martin loves so, “Sounded like you were awake, so I came to check on you. How are you feeling?” 

Martin tries to answer, he really does, but as he makes out the shapes of the words all that comes out is a dry wheezing sort of sound, like his throat’s been encrusted with salt and sediment. Another try, then another, sitting up now, growing more and more frustrated - he finally gets to talk to them face to face in a meaningful way and he can’t even  _speak, of course, just his luck-_

A still-steaming cup of tea inserts itself into his field of view - the stranger offers it to him with a gentleness Martin’s wholly unused to. He accepts it with a small smile and a nod, trying to convey his gratefulness through body language in a body he’s not entirely used to. Rather than responding further, he just lets the stranger putter about somewhere too far for him to see specifics, and tries not to smile too fondly at the oversized cat-printed cup his drink’s been served in. Martin’s learning new things about this stranger all the time, it seems.

“I, ah, know very much how that feels. Not to worry. Just drink up for now, see if your voice comes back later.” It sounds like an admission, somehow, and Martin holds every word close in case he never hears them again. He still has so many questions, and not being able to ask them is making him uneasy. On a small table beside the bed the stranger’s set out sugar and milk, as well as a couple pills Martin can’t recognize from afar. 

The stranger still seems to be looking for something else, peeking around what may be piles of books or papers on the shelves and bureau. Martin wonders what it is they seek. With a frustrated huff the stranger strides out of the room - then stops short, like they just remembered Martin’s presence. “Ah, one moment, if you don’t mind. I’m not going far.”

Martin’s listening, of course... kind of. He certainly makes some gesture that can be interpreted as a nod. The stranger takes it as his blessing to leave the room, and they mutter some kind of acknowledgment before going, cane thunking against the hardwood. The sound echos for quite a ways - Martin wonders just how big this house is, and why the stranger seems to be the only one in it.

To be honest, he’s a bit distracted. He’s trying to process a lot of information at the moment, and his still half-asleep brain is struggling to keep up. A small part of Martin worries about what it is he’s still missing, some niggling part of his brain trying to spot red flags. He decides he’ll keep his rose-coloured glasses on for now, though, and hope there’s just some funny-in-hindsight misunderstanding, some perfectly rational explanation for the situation he’s found himself in.

“Aha!” The stranger’s exclamation from a couple rooms over interrupts Martin’s thoughts, and they walk back to him holding a handful of medical-looking stuff in the crook of their free arm. “I’ll clean up your bandages again, get those tidied up for now.” They start unrolling what he assumes are bandages, among other things he can’t identify at the moment, plus-

“I, uh, believe these are yours, as well,” the stranger says, holding out Martin’s glasses, still intact. He accepts them quietly, in a bit of a daze, putting them on and turning to look at the room while the stranger carefully crouches beside the bed and sets about their work. 

Now Martin can see the piles of folders, files and books tucked away in various corners wherever they’ll fit, some porcelain knickknacks arranged on small shelves, a single neatly-labelled potted plant perched at the window. He wonders about what kind of life the stranger leads, this stuffy, academic looking person living in a house out of Martin’s daydreams. You can infer a lot about someone from how they arrange their room, after all, and the stranger seems for all the world like a puzzle piece left behind in the wrong box. The juxtaposition is jarring, to say the least.

A sudden chill snaps him back to what the stranger is up to. The quilt over his leg has been pulled back to reveal the limb itself, swollen and bruised the colour of slate and seaweed on the lower half. Martin feels something in his stomach roll at the sight. He tries to form his mouth around the syllables and ask a particular one of the many, many questions he’s accumulated.

“You don’t have to look,” the stranger says first, like they’ve read his mind, “just sit tight for now, I’ll let you know when the bandage is back on.” 

Martin’s more than happy to oblige. He looks down towards the blankets still covering him, picking and plucking at the fabric. It’s a nervous tic of his, but given the state his leg is in he feels he has plenty of reason to indulge it. Besides, the patches on the quilt are very nice, a series of stripes, spots and stylized patterns that he can’t stop looking at. It makes an adequate distraction from the sensation of the stranger’s hands across his tender skin, ghosting over the injury with such gentleness Martin has to restrain a shiver. 

He can’t recall if he’s ever been touched by a human - certainly not with benevolent intent, if ever. It’s a strange, unfamiliar feeling, but... perhaps not an unwelcome one. The silence is filled by the stranger’s humming, the same tune as before. Martin wishes he knew where he’s heard it before. He wonders if they realize they’re doing it, or if it’s an absentminded habit. Either way, his fondness is going to overwhelm him if he doesn’t quell it somehow; he clenches a hand in the blankets, and hopes the stranger can’t hear the beating of his heart. 

A hollow sort of  _thunk_ he can’t identify makes Martin jolt, wincing at the aggravation of his injuries. The stranger flinches as well, looking spooked, then sheepish, chuckling softly. 

“It’s just the logs in the fire,” they say casually, gesturing with a hand to outside the little room. Martin knows he lacks context but looks over anyway, and is mesmerized in an instant by the slight flickering of the flames through the land glass in the little box, safely contained. It’s something he’s mostly heard of in scary stories, or watched fizzle to wet ash in the rain. Fire, he knows, is dangerous, but it’s just so _beautiful._ The stranger has gone back to bandaging his injury, but Martin’s near forgotten about it. His worries of before are long gone - everything almost feels unreal, like a fluffy, self-indulgent dream.

Then Martin’s eyes are drawn upwards to the soft motion of things hung to dry over the heat of the fire: 

The stranger’s coat and scarf, a couple of jumpers, and, tucked quietly off to the side,  _his fur coat_ _._ Like it belongs there.

Martin can’t breathe.

_How could he let this happen he trusted this stranger why did he trust them he should’ve known_ _ he should’ve  known-  _

How did they recognize him for what he is? He was so careful, always so careful-

_But not careful enough._

He can almost hear his mother’s sneering “I told you so” in his mind, told  _too late_ _,_ never listening, never going to see the sea again he’s trapped his skin’s been stolen he’s never going home-

Martin doesn’t register that the slight panicked whining noise he hears is coming from him until the stranger isn’t touching him anymore, they’ve moved, they’re coming  _closer what are they going to do to him no no no no-_

“Hey, hey. Just breathe with me, alright? Can you do that?”

No, obviously he can’t do that, he’s  _dying_ _,_ something’s stealing the air from his stupid human lungs just like the stranger stole his skin-

He makes a calculated decision, simple instinctual maths:  _I am bigger, they are smaller. They can’t hold me here_ _._ Martin surges forward out of the bed with a feral energy, hoping to escape and retrieve his skin, only to feel an agonizing pulling in his leg that sends him crumpling to the ground like a ship at full speed gutting itself onto the rocks. 

The stranger looks near ghostly with fright as they try to wrangle him back into the bed. Martin feels trapped physically too, now, the kitschy quilts holding him like a net, a snare, a  _noose_ _,_ half suspended upside down and trying to escape. He blames this trap for why it feels like all the air is being squeezed from his lungs. Their eyes meet, and Martin’s sure he must look the picture of desperate prey unable to flee. Funny how that works when the stranger’s so much smaller than he is. His vision blurs with tears, and the stranger’s just watching him struggle and saying pointless words like-

“Please, I-I know how it feels, I promise you’re not dying. You’re going to be okay,” the stranger swears, now kneeling before him and looking infuriatingly (just barely) calm. “Inhale, and exhale, like this.” Martin’s never been so spiteful and envious of anyone’s breathing before now, but he tries to copy the steady rise and fall of the stranger’s chest nonetheless. Anything to ward off the aching emptiness growing inside him like a gaping void as he struggles to pull air in. 

This goes on for what feels to Martin like an eternity, a wretched hurricane of confusion and guilt and terror raging inside him as the stranger sits in front of him, murmuring platitudes in that stupid voice he can’t help but find comforting, holding his hand so carefully, so cautiously. Half of Martin feels betrayed and confused, hoping there’s still some misunderstanding. The other half is resigned to the fact that he shouldn’t have trusted any of this anyway. The other half knows better.

The first lungful of air he manages at long last feels so sweet he could weep with it, like coming up for air after a lengthy dive. Martin avoids looking at the stranger as they try with seemingly all their strength to get him back into the bed. He doesn’t want to meet their eyes and face what he might see in them. The bed creaks when he sits himself back up, trying to ignore the pain. The only sound in the room now is his sniffling and heavy breathing as he calms down, and he can’t stand how pitiful he must sound.

The stranger is still holding his hand. They haven’t spoken in a while, just crouching beside him, a grounding presence. Martin wishes it wasn’t as effective as it is - it’d be easier, he thinks, if they weren’t here.  _Even easier if he wasn’t here._ Why are they acting so kind? What’s to be gained from it that they haven’t already acquired and hung up among their other possessions?

His thoughts are disrupted by the parting stroke of the stranger’s thumb across the back of Martin’s hand before they let go, taking up their bandages once again in soft silence. Martin tries to shove down the sense of loss he feels, but it’s as hard to pin as a flopping fish. He swears he still feels a tingling where their hand rested just moments before. 

There’s a subtle tension in the air, like the stranger wants to say something but hasn’t yet found the words (and oh, how Martin can relate). Martin can’t get over how eerily quiet the house is now. The stranger was the only one fighting against the silence, and now it trickles in with nothing to hold it at bay. He’s no expert on humans, but he knows they tend to live in groups when they can help it, like whales. So where are the rest? The room’s light feels colder somehow, all of a sudden. Lonelier. He considers the stranger haunting this cozy, oversized, ill-fitting home, roaming its halls like a wraith. He has questions.

“Um,” Martin rasps eloquently. The stranger startles at the broken quiet, or maybe at hearing his voice for the first time, he isn’t sure. They make eye contact - their eyes are such a pretty ochre colour up close, behind squared glass lenses anchored on delicate chains... No,  _focus!_ Just as before, his sudden moment of confidence ebbs away like the receding tide, but he fights against it anyway. He’s direly curious, now.

“You didn’t  _die_ here, did you?”

The stranger looks at him blankly before the question sinks in, and it’s  very obvious moments later when it does. They splutter and stutter out a response just as Martin trips over an apology for overstepping - how could he just ask that?

“What? Wh- no? I-“

“No, I-I mean, just, I was thinking, and I got this weird feeling-“

“That made you think I was a  _ ghost?” _

“Well I guess when you put it that way, it sounds stupid-“

“No, w-well I guess it’s just-“

They both falter at about the same time, the stranger’s complexion darkening in a way that suggests a blush before they look away. Maybe they feel the sudden chill too? That’s why humans blush, after all, in Martin’s experience. 

With a sigh, the stranger speaks while they finish up working on Martin’s leg. “I’m sure it seems quite empty in here, yes. It’s far larger than I need for just myself, but, it’s warm, dry... free,” they huff softly, like it’s a dry joke Martin isn’t privy to, “Well, as long as I take care of it, that is - though I like to think I’ve been on top of that, having been here this long.” 

Martin‘s avoiding looking at his injury, but he’s fixated on the stranger’s words, said so offhandedly: ‘just myself.’ Are they all alone?  _Do they have no one at all?_ Something in Martin’s heart twists without his permission. Even his kind doesn’t stay solitary forever - he can’t imagine the stranger by themselves in this ill-fitting home, too large and cold and  _quiet_ for them. What if something happened? What if they got hurt, with no one around to help? 

A thought occurs to him, then. Maybe  _this_ is why the stranger took him - they clearly lead a rather lonesome life, and the house seems big enough for half a dozen humans, let alone just one (or two). Perhaps they just want some companionship, and this was their solution. It would make sense. He has to admit, there are worse humans to be kept by. This one is kind to Martin when they have no reason to be, does things Martin’s never been on the receiving end of in quite some time. It’s refreshing, in a way, something he’s wholly unused to. 

(Somewhat more selfishly, Martin can’t bear the thought of his favourite stranger coming to harm through some fault of Martin’s. He’s a caretaker by nature, to his shame. He couldn’t just leave them adrift.)

Martin steps up to the task. He always does. 

“...It’s nice here,” Martin says. His honesty surprises even himself. “It has a sort of... charm, to it.” He surprises himself even more when he places his hand atop the stranger’s where it rests, gentle and cautious. 

The stranger blinks at him, owlish, before a soft smile reveals itself upon their face, dimples and all. He doesn’t quite get to enjoy it, as they turn away from him to pick up their materials and clear their throat, but a thrill still runs through him at getting to see (to be the reason for) such a sight. Their hand leaves his, and his sense of loss is misplaced, now.

“Thank you. Uh, if I’ve already said so, I-I apologize, but in the event that I  _didn’t_ tell you yet, you can stay here while you recover. If there’s anything you require, feel free to let me know.” They wobble near-imperceptibly when they stand, and Martin is quick to offer a steady hand while they acquire their cane. “Erm, I’m going to put these away momentarily. Are you okay here in the meantime? I know h-how it can be. It’s alright if you aren’t okay yet.”

Martin smiles at them, and hopes the stranger doesn’t see the way he swallows like bitter kelp and salt water. “I’m okay, thanks.”

With a nod, the stranger walks out of the room. They stop at the doorframe, though, and turn to look back at him with a little smirk. “Really? A  _ ghost?”  _

“I know, I know, it was silly,” Martin chuckles. 

The stranger gives him a look he can’t parse, and parts with, “It’s fine. It had a sort of... charm, to it.” Before Martin can reply, they’re gone, and he’s left alone with warmth in his cheeks and many thoughts on his mind. Oh, he’s a  _goner_ _,_ now.

He avoids performing a dramatic backwards flop into the sheets mere moments before he does it, abruptly remembering his injuries. He settles for just groaning quietly, holding his head in his hands. How does he end up in situations like this, anyway?  _What even is his life?_

It’s fine, though. Perfectly fine. Martin’s worked through worse... though admittedly never anything like this. But he’ll be okay! Best case scenario: his leg heals sooner rather than later, and he takes back his coat and books it out the nearest exit. Worst case scenario... he’d rather not think about it. It’s not like he’d let it happen anyway. He’s going to leave eventually. 

Just as long as he makes sure the stranger’s fine, first. Before he goes.

Well, that answers his question, he thinks derisively. This  _fondness_ will be the death of him. While the stranger’s out of eye and earshot it’s easier to pretend they aren’t there at all, pretend there’s no issue whatsoever for a a few minutes. He tugs the heavy quilt back up over his lower body and reaches for the abandoned teacup. He tries hard not to glare at the little cats on the mug - it’s not their fault, after all.

One absentminded sip wrinkles his nose, and Martin looks down to find it not even very cold - just lacking in milk and sugar, and  _certainly_ not lacking in bitterness. He swears it almost tastes burnt, like a mouthful of soggy ash. That’s one thing he’ll have to work on while he’s here, then. If nothing else, he can teach this stranger to make a passable cup of tea.

It’s going to be a  _long_ day.


	3. Fill In The Blanks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally... Jon’s perspective at last, and Tim drops in for a visit! There’s also some minor swearing.

Jon doesn’t get close to people. 

It’s a fact they’ve acknowledged as truth their whole life. Perhaps it could be more correct to say that people don’t get close to Jon, but at some point it became mutual. They live their solitary, entirely content life and try their hardest to focus on what stays constant: work. In spite of a few flukes - Georgie back in uni, Tim and Sasha now - it’s generally been a law that rules Jon’s life.

So why is there a  _ complete stranger in their house? _

They pace just a bit after returning the bandages to their rightful place, circling at the end of the hall trying to rationalize their past actions and hoping the stranger just a few walls away doesn’t hear their anxious  _ clack clack clacking  _ upon the floor. 

What made them look outside at just the right time to see the stranger like some shipwreck victim bedraggled on the rocks? Furthermore, what  _ possessed _ them to try to drag the stranger into their home and nurse them back to health? And  _ flirt _ with them in some spur of the moment mistake, no less? Georgie had always criticized their impulsiveness. Clearly they hadn’t improved since. 

They should really sit down. Yesterday was a good day, right up until they decided to play superhero - and their muscles make no secret of their displeasure now. And here they are, pacing. Of course.

Mere centimetres away from the comfort of a chair, a shrill ringing erupts from their phone, which they’d forgotten was in their pocket, actually. They jolt in fright, already all nerves, and try to finagle fishing the phone from their back pocket and sitting down at the same time. Tim’s name sits on the screen in blunt, bold letters. Hands shaking, they answer the call, and hope Tim didn’t hear their sigh of relief as they sit down at last.

“Hello, Tim.”

“Hiya there, boss!”

Jon pinches the bridge of their nose. “I’m not your boss, Tim. You really don’t need to call me that.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” His smug smile is near audible. “Anyway, you texted me earlier about some crutches? Everything okay over at the Sims household?”

“Yes, everything is fine. If memory serves, you mentioned a few months back you kept some old crutches at your place. I texted you to ask if you still had them... and also if I could, uh, borrow them.”

“Huh. I didn’t even know I mentioned that to you.” Tim sounds genuinely confused. “But yeah, I broke my leg a couple years back in a hiking accident. Was on crutches for damn near forever, but I never got around to throwing them out. Why do you ask?”

“...Reasons. Good reasons.”

Judging by the pause, Tim’s less than convinced. “Which... are..?”

“I need them,” Jon blurts.

“...Right. Okay. Where’s your cane?”

“Beside me, like usual,” they say, only half lying. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” 

“So... what’re the crutches for, then?”

“I told you, I have my reasons for needing them.” They’re getting tired of this strange circular direction the conversation’s gone in. “Why do you keep asking?”

“Because... they’re  _ my _ crutches?” Tim says in disbelief, “And because  _ you _ have a track record for lying about anything pertaining to taking care of yourself.” The feeling of an accusatory finger poking them in the chest accompanies Tim’s words. “You can tell me if something’s happened, Jon, promise. Tell you what, I’ll run the crutches over to you-”

“No! N-no. No.” If Tim shows up, then they’d have to try to explain their  _ situation_ _._ Completely out of the question. “Th-that won’t be necessary, but thank you. I’m perfectly capable of coming over and retrieving them myself, if you don’t mind.”

“Mmhm. Sorry, Jon, can’t say I’m convinced,  and turns out I have a free afternoon.”  _ Cheeky bastard_ _._ “I’ll be over in a bit with your crutches, and to make sure you’re still in one piece in that big shack of yours. I won’t have you wasting away out there-”

“I’m not! Tim, you’re  _ not _ coming over.”

“Ooh, touchy! Care to explain why? I’m all ears, Jon.”

“...I-I, uh. I haven’t cleaned up recently.” They’d love to beat their head in a wall now. _ That’s the best they could come up with? Seriously? _

The silence is deafening, before Tim sighs. “You’re killing me, Jon. You’re killing me with your terrible lying. C’mon. How bad can it be, really? Let me guess. Your cane’s halfway across the house and you can’t get up to get it? There’s something on a shelf your little arms can’t reach? No, no, I’ve got it - the great Jonathan Sims has a _special_ _somebody _ staying over that he doesn’t want me to see! I pinky promise, I won’t be jealous...”

Jon’s prolonged silence must give him away. “Jon? Wait,  _ Jon?! _ For real-“

“It’s not what you’re thinking.”

He can  _ hear _ Tim’s devilish grin. “Ohoho, I’m sure it isn’t-“

“Tim, please! This is serious,” Jon pleads.

“Alright, alright! Fine. Tell me what happened.”

“...I’m in a bit of a... a situation, you might say.” 

“Can’t be that bad, Jon, come on. You of all people know I’ve been in plenty of  _ situations _ myself-“

“Yes, yes, I’m aware,  _ please _ don’t go into details again.” Jon sighs and steels himself. “I may have... sort of... rescued a stranger from a storm and now they’re in my house and I think they broke a bone or something and they’re actually really nice and I don’t know what to do?”

The silence is deafening. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t make me say it again.” Jon’s itching to get up and pace again, anything to soothe his nerves, but he won’t give Tim more ammunition for his caretaking crusade. “I mean, they’re conscious? At least, they were last I spoke to them and that was, what, five? No, more than five minutes, wait-“ 

“Jon. Jon, please tell me your baseline for what constitutes ‘okay’ isn’t just ‘conscious’.” At Jon’s guilty stammering he cuts through to the point. “Okay, fine, we’ll work on  _ that _ later. I’m guessing this is what the crutches are supposed to be for?” 

“Yes,” Jon sighs, with relief this time at not having to talk around an explanation. “Their leg seemed to be bruised up quite badly and I doubt they can walk on it, but otherwise they’re fine... come to think of it I cleaned up a bit of blood around the injury, though, in hindsight it could’ve been mud-“

“Christ, Jon. Okay. You at least did first aid?”

“I’d like to think so, Tim.”

“Nice and vague, and slightly worrying to boot! Classic Jon,” Tim snarks. “At the very least, what’s their name? Sasha will be  _ dying _ to do a background check on them.” 

“Sasha  _ should _ be doing no such thing, but, I suppose you and I both know she can’t be stopped...”

A pause. “...Jon? Jon, you do know their name, right-“

“ _Obviously _ I know their name, Tim, who do you take me for?” Jon snaps. “It’s, uh. Um... Hm.”

“Seriously?”

“Alright, yes, it slipped my mind, but in my defence I’ve been rather busy since their arrival.”

“Okay, sure. Gonna go out on a limb and guess you don’t know their pronouns either.” 

“No.”

Tim’s quiet for a moment. “...Do they know  _ your _ name?”

“...Shit.”

Tim’s exasperated sigh crackles through the speaker. “Really, Jon-”

“I forgot! I’ve been doing a lot of things, I’m sorry if arranging  _ introductions _ didn’t occur to me yet.”

“That’s, uh. Okay. It’s fine, Jon, really. We’ll figure this out one thing at a time. Plus, you have me now-“

“Truly a joy and an asset to have on my side,” they deadpan.

“C’mon, you love me. Here, how about this - I’ll be over shortly, I’ll bring the ol’ crutches, and you can direct me to your brand new roommate so I can assess the damage. And maybe see just how cute this mysterious stranger is with my own eyes-”

“Tim!”

“Not to worry, boss, Dr. Stoker’s doing house calls! I’ll see you in a jiff.”

With a beep, the call ends, and Jon feels both relieved and terrified. He’s not sure if that’ll lead to more or less problems in the long run. It’s like the butterflies in his stomach did a few parting somersaults and loop-de-loops before dropping dead. 

Both Jon and the chair groan when they stand up. They’ve got to go make the house at least somewhat presentable before Tim manifests on his doorstep... and they have to check how their  _ guest _ is doing. 

He sighs. It’s going to be a  _ long _ day.

* * *

How long does it take to put away some bandages?  


Martin’s been laying in bed for what might as well be forever, tea gone cold, while the stranger’s still gone to return their materials. He could hear them talking a few moments ago, but far as Martin can tell no one else is here. He didn’t hear any other voices. Maybe the stranger just enjoys talking to themselves - Martin sure wouldn’t complain about hearing that voice all the time. 

His coat still sits hung to dry over the mantle, mocking him. So close, yet so far away in his current state. Some bitter part of his brain concocts a theory that the stranger inflicted these injuries on him, but he shuts it down. It’s definitely the last thing he needs to think about right now. Besides, from what he’s seen of the stranger, they don’t seem to be the type. Sure, people can be sadistic under the surface, Martin supposes, but he’s just not getting that sort of vibe. 

Martin can’t complain too much, though. Aside from the boredom, his imprisonment isn’t anywhere near as awful as he’d come to expect. The quilts and blankets encasing him are soothing, in a weird way, and keep him warm in a way he’s not accustomed to in human form. Humans have a severe lack of natural insulation, in Martin’s opinion. 

Well, he’s seen some humans with the right idea - his own human form included, which is just as chubby and freckly as his usual form. He couldn’t tell before past their jumper, but he’s pretty sure the stranger’s thin as a razor clam, scrawny and pointy. Yet another thing Martin has to work on while he’s here, it seems. They look like a cold breeze might shatter them into tiny little shards. And that’s unacceptable.

As if summoned by Martin’s thoughts, the stranger suddenly rounds the corner and pokes their head in the doorframe, puncturing his comfortable internal monologue. Their eyes lock for a brief moment, and Martin gets the feeling they’re about to speak. 

Sure enough, the stranger clears their throat. “Uh, s-sorry to bother you, with the talking a moment ago. That was just Tim, no worries.” 

Martin just nods, for lack of knowing what else to do. He doesn’t know who Tim is. Is he supposed to? The stranger’s invisible, silent conversation partner, perhaps. Regardless, he’s not too worried. 

“Also, um. What’s your name, again?”

_ Again?  _ Did they already know? Martin doesn’t remember telling them, but, to be fair, he doesn’t remember a lot of things lately. He’ll tell them again anyway, just to be safe.

“It’s, uh, Martin. Martin Blackwood.”

“Ah, y-yes. Right.” The stranger’s blushing again - maybe Martin just can’t feel the cold past all the layers. “He and him?”

_ What?  _

“What?” Martin asks.

The stranger’s face is getting darker and ruddier by the second. “P-pronouns, I mean. I, er, go by he and they.”

“Oh!” Martin says in realization. “Yes, uh, just ‘he’ is fine, thanks.”

“Right, um, thank you.”

He keeps standing there in the doorway, though. And standing. And standing some more. It can’t be comfortable, Martin thinks. The house is dead quiet. They aren’t quite staring at Martin, but just past them. He wonders if there’s something strange just behind him.

“Jon.”

Martin startles at the sudden broken silence. “Pardon?” 

“My name. It’s, uh. Jonathan Sims. Just Jon is fine.”

“Oh. Uh... alright. Cool.” Martin squeaks. Turns out the stranger has a name, and a nice one at that. 

“Cool.” The stranger- no,  _ Jon,_ nods. And keeps standing for a moment. 

Then he turns around again, the tangible awkwardness permeating the room seemingly getting to him at last, and walks right back the way he came. 

Martin’s left staring at the empty space, wondering what just happened. It felt like a bit of a disaster, but Martin’s never been the best judge of this sort of thing. He resolves not to worry about it at all, as otherwise he’d worry about it a lot. At least he’s learned their name.  _ Jon. Jooonnn. _He’d love to try speaking it aloud, toy with it a bit, but he’ll save it for when he can confirm they aren’t just on the other side of the wall to hear him. He’s had enough mortification for one day. Martin does whisper it reverently to himself, though, and a small smile graces his face. 

The sunlight’s now streaming in through the window warmer and hazier than before, this time leaving Martin’s poor retinas in peace. Between the cozy blankets and the heat of the patch of sunlight he now finds himself in, it’s getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open. The pain isn’t even so bad anymore after the painkillers Jon offered him, tamed down to a quiet ache. Everything’s just feeling fuzzy and soft, now. 

He’s never been able to say no to lazing in the sun. The stranger’s gone somewhere else for now anyway; he’s not in any immediate danger.

Maybe he can afford just a little nap, really quick... as a treat. Yeah... that’d be nice. Just until Jon comes back... 

With a small yawn, Martin lets his eyes drift shut, with the promise of waking again soon. 

* * *

A loud, booming  _ shave-and-a-haircut _ echos loud and clear across the house, heralding Tim’s arrival. Jon nearly tears the door from its hinges opening it, not even letting him get to _ two-bits_ _._ Tim jumps, clearly not expecting Jon to be right beside the door. 

“Jesus, Jon, you scared the shit out of me-“

“Don’t make so much noise!” He whisper-yells, glaring daggers at Tim. “This is a  _quiet_ place right now, and I’ll not have you ruining it.” Jon still gestures for Tim to come inside, which he does.

Tim, still catching his breath from that scare, shrugs off his jacket and rests the crutches against the nearest wall. He turns to Jon. “If I may ask, why are we whispering?”

Jon, not answering, instead strides off from the porch and into the interior of the house. They can hear Tim’s quiet squawk of surprise behind them as he struggles to keep up with Jon and keep quiet at the same time. 

They stand in the doorway of where Martin lies and nod towards him, looking back and forth between he and Tim. “He’s resting.” Jon states, as if it’s natural law that he shouldn’t be woken.

To be fair, he did look rather peaceful. Bundled up in all the blankets and quilts Jon could find, curly hair fanned out around him like a halo, sunbeams shining down around him. It was sort of reminiscent of a cat, lazing indulgently in warmth and comfort. Aside from the patches of black and blue uncovered by the bandages and makeshift cast, Martin looked perfectly fine and happy. It stirred something in Jon’s heart - pride in a job well done, maybe? He wasn’t certain. Something warm and fond. Maybe he was coming down with something.

Jon must’ve been looking for longer than they thought. They turn back to Tim, only to see a grin splitting his face. “So this is your Sleeping Beauty, huh?”

Jon elbows him, then shushes him for his grunt of pain. “Either you picked a bad time to show up, or he picked a bad time to fall back asleep,” they mutter. 

“Could be both,” Tim muses. “I’m not gonna go poking and prodding the poor guy while he’s asleep, don’t worry.” He walks further into the room, standing and observing the injury but still keeping his distance. Eventually, Tim shrugs. “Based on your description and what I’m seeing, it sounds like just a little break, but, y’know, I’m no doctor. Danny cracked something in his leg while we were out last year - y’know, tripped over a rock or something, fell over a cliff, had his kayak fall on him like two seconds later, very painful of course but it was comedy  _ gold _ \- a-anyway, looked about the same as this. He’ll probably be fine-“

“Well, did you take him to a hospital?” Jon asks, quivering. He’s staring at Martin now as if any second he might disintegrate before his eyes.

“...No, why?”

“Wh- why not? Did he die?!”

Tim balks, then glares at him as if they’d just asked if he himself was dead. “He’s still alive, Jon,  _obviously_ _,”_ he deadpans, raising an eyebrow. “Look, Danny turned out fine, I did just about the same things you did. Honestly, you did better than I expected with the splint and bandages.” He gestures to the plaid blanket Jon has folded and held in place to support Martin’s calf and foot. 

Jon is... somewhat relieved, but sceptical. In Tim’s own words, he’s no doctor. “Are you absolutely  _sure?_ _”_ Jon probes. “I’ve looked at it enough times - it’s, erm, quite vicious-looking. I’m not even sure what happened to him, he was out for quite a while before and it looked terrible - and, and you said yourself-”

Tim gives them what Jon thinks is supposed to be a reassuring expression, holding up his hands placatingly. “I’m positive, boss, trust me. Long as you keep it wrapped up tight, and keep him off his feet, he’ll be fine. Good as new in two to four weeks, I’d say.”

Jon sighs.  _ So call it about a month, then.  _ He’s starting to get a feeling like he might be in over his head.

With a slight groan, Martin shifts in the bed. Both he and Tim stop dead. Ultimately, Martin just grumbles sleepily, pulls the pillow closer, and stills once again. The slow-again rise and fall of his chest prompts them both to let out a quiet sigh of relief. 

Gingerly, Tim steps backward towards the door. Jon grimaces at the creaking of some of the floorboards, just thankful that Martin hasn’t stirred again. They murmur to Tim, now beside him, “I’ll go put the kettle on.” Tim makes some noise of affirmation, and Jon carefully pulls the door shut, twisting the knob so the latch doesn’t click loudly. 

In the dining room, Jon wishes they could sit on the kettle if it made its whistle any quieter. Its banshee screech sounds far, far louder than it should - what if it wakes Martin? He needs his rest. Jon restrains any comment, lest Tim poke fun at them for not just using an electric kettle.  _ Heathen.  _

“You sure you need tea, boss? No offence, but, uh... you’re shaking.”

Ah. So he is. He clasps one hand around the other to still their slight quivering. Tim places a steady hand on his shoulder. Jon tries not to lean into it too obviously - not that he thinks Tim of all people would mind, but... it’s the principle of it. 

“Hey.”

Jon lifts his head, meets Tim’s concerned gaze. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with this? I mean,” Tim gestures vaguely in the direction of where Martin sleeps. “This is a lot, for anyone. I know you’re used to having the place to yourself, and even ignoring all the... the everything, it’s still pretty different for you.”

Jon sighs. “It’s okay, Tim, thank you. I’ll be alright... just a bit tired.”

Tim doesn’t seem fully convinced. “Do you want to talk about it, at least? It might help you feel better.”

“And answer your burning questions?” Jon asks.

“Well, that too,” Tim replies, somewhat sheepishly, “but mostly the first one.” 

It’s quiet now. The kettle’s stopped its wailing, and the fire crackles in the corner. Tim’s still sitting beside them, patiently. So Jon tells their story.

“You know about the storm last night?”

Tim nods. “How could I not? Thought the roof was going to cave.”

Jon goes on. “It happened then. I saw them out there, on the beach. I-I went out, to check... it was worse up close, Tim. It was like something tore him to shreds.”

Looking pensive, Tim says, “Shipwrecked, maybe?”

Jon looks him in the eyes, unimpressed. “He’s still alive, Tim. No sign of any ships around lately, either. We’d know.”

“Hm. Fair enough.” 

“He was pretty shaken up about it, though. Woke up earlier today, and he just seemed kind of... numb, for a bit. I’m not sure it sunk in right away.” Jon sighs. “I helped him through a panic attack when it did.”

He ignores Tim’s sympathetic wince, continues on. “He improved after that, though.” He looks past Tim towards the closed door. Tim follows his gaze. “It’s why I’m trying to let him rest. Give him some space.”

They both sit silently for a moment, Tim’s hand still on Jon’s shoulder, a comforting weight. 

“Well. That... sure sounds like a lot.” Tim says.

Jon snorts softly, despite himself. “Bit of an understatement.”

Tim hums. They sit in silence for a moment while Tim collects his thoughts. Jon’s always appreciated that about Tim - even with his upbeat demeanour, he’s one of the most determined, stable people Jon knows; a solid foundation. Jon decides to lean a little into Tim’s hand on their shoulder after all. Just a little. 

“If you ask me, Jon, it seems like you’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Tim states, leaving no room for argument. “ _You_ of all people went out into  _ that storm,_ rescued someone you don’t even know-“

“I-I sort of know him... now,” Jon interrupts, trailing off. His words catch up to his brain a second later, and his face burns. Tim looks like he’s just barely holding back from saying something.

“Okay, someone you  _ sort of know _ \- and we are absolutely coming back to  _ that _ one, but anyway, it’s true!” Tim starts putting up fingers. “Surprisingly good first aid, offering up a free bed, talking a guy through a panic attack - who did all that?” 

“...I did,” Jon answers, sitting up a bit straighter.

Tim pats him on the shoulder, grinning now. “Yeah, you did! That’s a lot, Jon, really. You’re like a real Superman out here - we’ll be in the office one day, and then you’ll tear off your sweater vest and shed your civilian disguise to go rescue more handsome people in distress-”

“Oh, shut up,” Jon laughs, shoving Tim playfully in his side. “Alright, yes, I suppose it was quite an achievement for me, and I did better than I thought.”

“Damn right you did,” Tim beams. “You did great, and you’re still doing great, but don’t let that make you think you can’t come to me for help. Or Sasha, for that matter. We’re here for you, anytime.”

Jon smiles soft back at him. “Thank you. I do feel like I have things a bit more... under control, now, so to speak. But I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Sure thing, boss. Wouldn’t expect any less from you,” Tim says. “I’m free for a phone call anytime, except for most Saturday nights-“

A muffled crash and thunk from behind the closed door startles them both out of their conversation. Tim jolts, and pales at the realization.

Jon’s already imagining all the worst possibilities lying behind that door, and he’s out of the chair before he even realizes he’s moved. 

Tim hands him his cane before he wastes too much time looking for it, an effortless pass. “Uh, would you rather I stick around, or..?”

Jon shakes their head. “I-I’ll handle this, but thank you. You should probably go if I’m being quite honest. It’s getting later, and you’ve helped us plenty already-“

“Oh, so you’re already at the ‘ _us’_ phase?” 

“Shut it!”

By the time Jon shoos him off to the door and watches him disappear past the driveway, they’re left alone in an ominously silent house. They sigh. Better go check to make sure Martin’s okay.

**Author's Note:**

> big thanks to Evie, Cam, and the rest of the gang for their help in bringing this story to life <3 hope you enjoy!


End file.
